Origins of Sync the Tempest :SPOILERS:
by Isenet
Summary: One possible account on the ascension of Sync the Tempest to the position of God Generalhood. Again, this story will contain spoilers. Any question asked in reviews will be answered at end of story.
1. Birth

The barest reaches of sunlight reached out across the horizon, shedding light onto the town surrounded by forests and mountains. The town was situated near a volcano, and the heat could be felt by all of its residents. And yet, despite this grand volcano, the dominant feature of the land was a great cathedral that stood in the middle of the town. The name of this place was Daath, the holy city of the land of Auldrant.

As the light entered the windows of their homes, merchants awakened, and prepared themselves to begin the daily rush of selling their wares to pilgrims, tourists, and other travelers. They shuffled slowly out, walking to their stands, bowing to the great stone monuments as they passed.

On the grounds surrounding the Cathedral, men who had been up well before the merchants stood at attention. A man, old, but still sturdy, stood before them all, shouting orders, encouragement, and light-hearted insults at them as they continued their practice session. All together, as if they were one large body, the soldiers gripped the swords at their sides, and drew them. These were the Oracle Knights, the defenders of the city, and its soldiers whenever the armies of the Kingdoms of Malkuth and Kimlasca-Lanvaldear would need to be broken up. Sweat poured from exertions of many hours, and each man wielded their sword with more skill than normal warriors would have, for Daath held back no training for its defense. And so they trained.

The amount of activity inside the Cathedral, although different, was no less great, as people moved about in preparation for the pending arrival of pilgrims and such. The priests worked quickly to organize the common routines and the altar boys lit the fires of the candles. Maids ran through the halls, searching for any nook and cranny to clean…and occasionally standing by a window to watch the men train on the grounds. Those who did so would then move back to her friends and they would giggle and gossip amongst themselves on which Knight was the best among them. Such a group of maids passed by a door before which two men stood, talking to each other. The maids grew silent as they walked by, their eyes carefully trained on the floor. Even after they had moved a far distance from the men, they spoke in whispers.

One of these men was large; not fat, but certainly larger than the other. He wore a white and purple hat, and his robes were of the same color. The other man was taller, and had a more distinct face. It held a pair of bushy eyebrows, and a prominent goatee had grown itself on his chin. Both of them seemed to be enveloped in an aura of confidence, a sure sign of their power in the Cathedral. They were conversing in muffled whispers before the door, glancing at any who would come by to make sure that none eavesdropped on their conversation. For behind the door was something so important that it was to be dangerous if any other person was to know.

The room itself, however, was completely ordinary; in fact, maybe even less ordinary than it could be. It was almost bare, and held only a mirror and a bed. On top of this bed lay a small boy of perhaps twelve, with a full head of green hair on his head. His body was slight and, except for the blanket covering the lower half, naked. The boy lay on the bed, perfectly still as his mind came to grips with its surrounding.

He couldn't see a thing, but of course, his eyes were closed. But for the time being, he was fine with that. He felt the sensation of nerves that were apart from his main body, enclosed in long, thin appendages attached to him. With a harsh concentration of will power, he slowly lifted each one in turn. The boy slowly opened his eyes, and was instantly blinded by the sudden light in his eyes.

A few moments later, his sight returned. One of the appendages hung before him from an automatic reaction to the light. He gazed at it, confused. The part he could see was wide, but flat, and from it stemmed five smaller limbs. He concentrated on them, and they began to move in front of him. He blinked in confusion upon seeing the movement and let his concentration falter. His arm fell back onto the bed with a slight thump. Now, he was able to stare at the ceiling, and at the window that was on one wall. It was boarded up, but rather sloppily, as small rays of light were able to enter through cracks between the wooden planks. The green-haired child lay on the bed for a few moments longer.

After those moments, the boy felt a strange need to move some of the lower appendages, his legs. He moved them, but felt that it wasn't enough. He shifted his body, turning it so that it faced the doorway, from which his ears picked up some strange sounds, something that he would later be able to call mumblings. With careful movements, he turned his body more, so that his legs were hanging off the bed. He was not sure as to why he did this, or how he knew too, and he did not think about it. With pushes of his body, he brought his body over the edge of the bed. He placed his legs on the floor, still without any knowledge as to why he did so, and pushed the rest of his body up from the mattress. He stood there, swaying back and forth, as he tried to retain his balance. Eventually, however, it left him, and he fell with a crash on to the hard wooden floor. The small mumblings from outside stopped abruptly, and the door creaked open, revealing the face of Van Grants. Too pained to do anything but look, the child stared at the face of the taller man. He felt the gaze from the man's blue eyes looking down into his own green ones, and it almost felt as if the man was able to look at the boy's soul. The child blinked a few times, and instantly felt a deep trust toward and a need to impress the man. He watched as the man stepped across the room to stand right over him.

With a smooth motion that the child felt he would never reach, the brown-haired man bent over, and lifted the boy as if he weighed no more than air itself. The man began to carry him back to the bed, and then hesitated. Then, making a decision, he turned away from the bed and toward the only other piece of furniture in the room: the mirror.

When the two had reached the mirror, the man set the boy down on his feet. The latter nearly fell, but the man set a hand on the boy's shoulder, so that he was able to keep his balance. The child looked up into the mirror and saw a boy, unclothed. The boy was small, especially compared to the man beside him. He had green hair that fell to his shoulders, and equally green eyes set in a thin face. Suddenly, the boy realized that the one in the glass was himself. He reaffirmed this theory by reaching out with one hand. The same hand of his glass-self reached out for him. Turning to look up at the tall man, the boy saw a smile on the man's face. This brought a strange feeling inside the child, one that appealed to him. He shrugged off the man's hand, which was relinquished willingly, and stood there before the mirror. He began to totter again, and he set his arms out to balance himself. He could feel himself almost falling, but managed to catch himself, and he stood, without support. And he recalled the motion that the tall man had made when he came into the room.

Carefully, he pushed his foot forward a little, rubbing the bottom of it on the smooth wooden floor. But he knew that that would not be enough to imitate the motion, and that he would need to lift the whole foot of the floor. Taking a deep breath, he did so, and promptly fell down on his bottom. He felt the edges of his lips angle downwards, and he got back up, refusing the help that the man offered. In response, the man moved his mouth. The child was unable to understand the sounds that came out from it, but the tone certainly seemed encouraging. He tried again, to get the same result. His face reddened as he tried a third time to no avail. But his fourth time proved fruitful, and the boy managed to balance long enough on one leg to set the other one forward a small step, but a step nonetheless. He repeated that small ritual three times, and then, exhausted from the effort, he fell back down on to the floor. The man lifted him again, a smile on his face that brought the emotion back to the boy's heart, and this time, he took him back to the bed. The last thing that the child was able to recall before his eyelids covered his eyes was the receding back of the man, and the strange design that decorated it.


	2. Learning

It was pretty difficult, this talking thing. What with all the work necessary to blow some air past your mouth and make sure that its sculpted into the right sounds. And all the different sounds and meanings for a single word! You couldn't at all be sure that you were saying what you meant, or even saying anything that actually had a meaning beyond random gibberish.

So ran the thoughts in the young, green-haired child's mind. The boy was sitting at a desk, staring a small book that lay before him. It illustrated the various methods and sounds that could be uttered from the lips of any person, but in such a way that it was so complicated that it would be near impossible for anyone to understand. But of course, the boy did not know that, and, amazingly, he was able to understand everything written in the book. Perhaps this child was genius. Perhaps he was just a mental oddity. Who was to know? Who was to care? Either way, he was learning to speak much more quickly than any normal human should have learned.

Across from him sat the man, the tall one with the brown hair and the beard or, as the child had since learned, was a goatee. As the boy read the words and pronunciations that were in the book, the man nodded.

"Ver…ell. Let…tinue…thing else," the boy heard the man say. Despite all his quick learning of speaking, he still had difficulty applying the knowledge to the more practical use of listening and actual talking. He suffered an attack of anxiety as he realized that he hadn't picked up a few of the sounds, and the message had been jumbled. His eyes flickered from the man's eyes back down to the book as he strained his brain to figure out what the man had said and whether he needed a response.

_Ver…ver…ver, _he pondered, _Very!_ Following this, he finally figured out the message.

"Yes," he said, slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable, "let us continue with the…lessons." The man nodded and smiled. He removed the book from the table and got up, searching the shelves that populated the room in which the two of them were. The boy had thought that this place was a library, but when he figured it was much too small and that, except for the two of them, it was always empty. He lost his train of thought as he noticed the man take a book from a shelf, riffle through it, and bring it back to the table.

"This will do," he said as he set it down. He opened it and pushed it toward the child. The boy looked down at it, and began to read aloud.

"P-p-points in ma-ma-material…objects at which…the fon-fonons comp-composing th-those objects tend to g-gath-gather are known as…'fon slots'." he read slowly and haltingly. The man across from him nodded as he read. This small encouragement and praise, as well as his increasing comfort in reading out loud, allowed the small boy to read the text more smoothly.

"These exist in all matter, including in the surface of the planet itself. Of these latter fon slots, the ten major fon slots are called…" He blanched as he realized that he didn't know the last word. He stared at it for a time, slowly mouthing it out to himself. He glanced up at the man but, seeing no gesture of aid or care, looked back down.

"Sefe…Sepe…Umm," he murmured to himself. He was shaking in nervousness as he tried repeatedly to sound the word out. The boy looked up nervously at the man, who just shook his head. He returned his eyes to the word, his brow furrowing, and frowned. After a moment, he heard the rustling of clothing.

"The word is 'Sepiroth'," the man across from him said gruffly as he got up. He pulled the book from under the boy's eyes and placed it back on the shelf. The child could feel a tiny bit of despair as he realized that he just might have failed the lesson. He watched as the tall man made his way over to the door. The man turned to the child and opened the door, nodding toward it. The child got up sadly, his eyes turned toward the floor, his shoulder hunched as he shuffled his feet toward the egress of the room.

"There is someone I need you to meet," said the man, startling the boy out of his sadness, and he looked up at the man.

"Who?" he asked. The man merely shook his head.

"You will see when I take you to him," was his response. The boy pondered as to whom that someone might be, but the only person he knew that was not himself was the man beside him. So he gave up on trying to figure out where he was taken and was satisfied to be surprised.

And how surprised he was. The place to which the man took the boy was relatively close to the small bookroom. The man had stood by the door while the boy entered, but did not enter himself. As the child walked in, the man closed the door softly, but the boy still jumped at the soft thump that came with the closing. The room was cold and bare, the walls and floor seemingly made of metal, and not a piece of decoration or furniture existed in there. The boy shivered in his simple robes that hung down to his knees. He glanced around the room with his emerald eyes, looking for anything, causing his green hair to sway back and forth across his face. As he lifted his arms to brush away the stray strands, he noticed that one of the shadows seemed out of place. Upon closer inspection, there seemed to be a person standing in the shadows.

"Is someone there?" he called meekly, almost not expecting an answer. He heard a small chuckle in response. For some reason, the laugh chilled him to the bones.

"Indeed, there is," came a voice from the same place. One foot made its way out of the shadows and another followed it soon after. And…the boy was once again looking in the mirror. For before him was another boy who had the exact same appearance as himself. Startled, the boy reached out, expecting the other to do so as well. But, the other didn't. All he did was smile at the confusion on the boy's face. It was dark smile, filled with irony and cruelty and loathing.

"Wh-who are you?" asked the confused boy. The grin on the other's face grew even wider.

"Oh? You don't know, do you?" he asked, tauntingly, "Well, kneel before me, for I am Fon Master Ion, head of the Order of Lorelei!" He remained grinning at the other boy's confusion.

"Excellent," he continued, "You don't understand." The one who called himself Ion gave the dark chuckle again. The other boy blinked as he tried to understand as to how someone so similar to him, but not him, could be standing before him. This Ion shook his head, his smile never faltering.

"So stupid," he growled, staring at the boy. The boy looked up at him, his eyebrows tilted in anger.

"I…I am not stupid!" he managed to stammer out, despite the feelings of inferiority to the one before him.

"Oh?" asked Ion, raising a brow. He laughed again. "You think you're smart? You know nothing! You are nothing! And you still don't understand, do you?"

"Sh-shut up!" the boy cried out. He flung himself at the one that looked at him, intending to hurt him and stop him from saying what he said…

And he found himself crashing to the floor. Pain shot through his side, more pain than he had ever felt, more than even when he fell from the bed when he first woke up. His eyes were closed tight as he tried to overcome the pain. And he felt someone grab him by the collar and lift him up into the air. He peeked one eye open to stare into the green eyes of the other one, Ion. These eyes were dancing with glee, and the boy's smile had not left his face.

"Stupid and weak," Ion hissed, and he flung the other boy into the wall. That one squealed out as more pain shot through his body, almost unbearable when combined with the previous injuries. His eyes flew open as the other rushed at him with amazing speed, and through him around. The smile had disappeared from his face, replace with a snarl that shocked the boy with its cruelty. But he had no time to think of it, as every blow and kick that this Ion delivered caused him to cry out in pain.

Finally, the torment stopped. The boy could feel his body shaking from the agony and he felt blood pour near every wound. His eyes were open, but he could barely see past the tears that flowed liked waterfalls down his cheek. Despite this, he could still hear the other boy's voice.

"Useless," he heard, "Why would Van even bother sending someone so worthless to me?" A slam of a door opening, the patter of steps across the ground, and the gasp of the man came to his ears.

"Van! What do you think you were doing, bringing such a useless piece of trash for me to test? How long has it been since his awakening?" The man – Van – flinched back as Ion yelled right in his face.

"It's been a week," he responded, "I take it that you are not…satisfied with him?"

"A week?" Ion exclaimed angrily, "And yet he is still so worthless? Garbage!" He turned and kicked the boy on the ground. Van made a move to stop him, but was stopped by Ion's menacing glare.

"Fon Master," Van said instead, "Are you sure you should be…" He let his question trail off.

"Him? You're worried about this piece of meat?" Ion asked, glancing down at the beaten boy, who was wincing in pain, "Hah! Remember, without me, he wouldn't exist. I can do whatever I want to him." To emphasize his point, he kicked the boy again, causing him to emit a new torrent of screams. Ion shook his head at him.

"I don't want to see him ever again. Get him out of my sight!" With those words, he made his way towards the door. Before leaving, he turned back to the man.

"I hope the next one proves more fruitful than that," he scowled, gesturing toward the body on the floor. He turned back around and made his way out of the room, leaving only Van and the boy in it. The sounds of sobbing coming from boy filled the room, and the man looked sadly down at the body. Carefully, he lifted it as he had a week ago, and carried it out of the room.


	3. Understanding

The room was dark and cold when he woke up, shivering and covered in sweat. Then again, the room was always cold and dark. And really small. In fact, it was hardly room in the true sense of the word, but the boy called it that since he had been forced to live here for the past two weeks, ever since that other boy, the one who called himself Ion, had met with him. He sighed and leaned back against the wall. In fact, this room was actually more of a cage. He couldn't really stand in here, the ceiling was too low, and the place was made of cold, bitter iron. Yes, it was definitely a cage.

The odd thing, though, was that there were others stuck like him. Even stranger, he could tell that, although he had only a brief glance when he had entered, all of the other captives looked just like him. He knew that he should have been startled to notice this, but after his encounter with that Ion boy, he didn't think he would be shocked if everyone else in the world looked like him.

A sudden cry shook him out of his thoughts. He sighed again, looking toward the place from which the cry came from. The others always seemed to be crying out every other moment, and it annoyed the boy to no end. But perhaps that was from lack of sleep. He frowned, and stared down at the ground. Ever since that encounter with the other him, he had been suffering from nightmares of the incident, waking up at night crying as he had this night. Perhaps it was rude to be annoyed by the others screaming since he did himself, but he didn't care. The noises from the others annoyed him all the same. He banged against the walls hoping to shut the others up, but it only caused them to cry out more.

"Hey! Shut up!" cried out a voice. The boy recognized it quickly. It was the man that gave them food, but it wasn't Van. This man was stranger. He was thin, and wore a strange outfit with sort of feathery things coming from the back collar. He had pure white hair and wore glasses that made it impossible to see his eyes. The man was always sitting in a chair that floated about a half a foot off of the ground. The boy sat there as he watched the man float over to the cage with the screaming occupant. He heard the crack of a slap on skin, a whimper, and silence.

"Damn that Van, putting me with these little nuisances," the man muttered, floating back towards the door, "My expertise in this matter should not be wasted on such foolish 'research' with failed replicas. I should be out in the other places, perfecting the theory of fomicry! How else am I supposed to beat that conniving, four-eyed fre-" He stopped abruptly as the door slammed into his face and two people entered. The boy scowled slightly as he noticed who the people were: Van and Ion.

"I told you he'd be in here," said Ion, who was facing Van. He pulled the white-haired man from behind the door.

"Dist," Van said, addressing him, "Do you have any new data on improving the replicas?"

"Absolutely, Commadant," responded the man Dist as he rubbed his head, "And I will get them immediately." He made his way out the door.

"Saphir," Ion said, his back turned away from the floating man. Dist turned, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes, Fon Master?" he asked, turning to face the boy's back.

"If Van and I are still talking when you get back, do not enter," he responded.

"Very well," Dist turned back to the door and left the room. Van slowly closed the door as he left.

"The next one had better succeed," Ion muttered. He had drifted over to the caged boy's cage and was now staring him in the eye. The boy tried to look away, but the hard gaze was strangely captivating.

"Fon Master?" Van said turning back towards Ion. His gaze flickered to the captives in the cages, who were all oddly silent.

"The next replica must succeed," Ion repeated, turning toward the man.

"Why?" Van asked.

"My time comes near," replied the Fon Master. He had turned back to the cages, looking at each in turn. Some recoiled, while others remained in their place, but all matched his gaze, unable to pull their eyes away from it. Van stood where he was, waiting to see if Ion would elaborate. The boy did so.

"The Score deems it that I will die this year, and I can feel it. I may only have a few more weeks to live. In fact, I'm sure of it." He scowled at the final captive, causing it to give a small squeal and scooted back deeper into its cage. Ion ignored it and turned toward Van.

"But, Fon Master," Van said, "That would leave time for only one more replica."

"I know. That's why I said this next one had better be the right one. It must succeed to be a perfect copy of me." Despite not understanding a word that was being said, the caged boy listened intently to every word that was being said.

"Fon Master, we could still continue creating replicas even after you are-"

"No," Ion interrupted him, "Only I can determine whether or not the replica is powerful enough to take on the name of Fon Master. Vandesdelca, this is our last chance to make the right replica."

"But if your prediction is correct, there will be no time for us to teach the replica – argh!" Van stopped as he felt himself lifted in the air.

"You don't understand, do you?" Ion growled, one of his hands gripping Van's neck. He rammed the man's bigger body into the side of the first two cages, one of which was the boy's. The boy started at the sudden crash and nearly cried out, but stifled the cry to hear what was going on.

The Ion boy's voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Listen to me, Vandesdelca," he hissed, "I don't care anymore if the replica is as stupid as these other ones. I only need to make sure that it is strong enough to pass off as the Fon Master. And only I will be able to know if it is indeed strong enough to carry on the name."

"Ion – " Van gasped. The caged boy heard the sound of a fist striking flesh, and Van's grunt.

"Remember your place, fool," Ion shouted, and the sound of a punch rang out again. "Do not call me by my name." The caged boy heard the sound of a thump, as if a body had fallen on the ground.

"I-I'm sorry, Fon Master," Van said, "I will remember this. But…"

"What?" Ion asked gruffly.

"How will I explain the sudden loss of the Fon Master's memories?"

"You will find a way. You did the same for that Luke boy. It is no different for me. Now, you must remember that when I die, you must continue on with our plan. The Score must be overturned, for it is has overtaken the minds of the people. This world must be destroyed to clear it of the memory of the Score, and you will recreate a new world clear of Lorelei, Yulia, and that damned Score. Remember this!" And Ion stalked away, leaving Van to get up by himself. Ion shoved the door open, and pushed past Dist, who had been waiting at the door. Dist glanced at his receding back with a sneer and turned towards Van. The white-haired man held a pile of documents in his hands, surely the data that Van had requested. A look of surprise crossed his face as he noticed the other man on the ground, and he floated his way over.

"Commandant?" he said, staring at the man on the ground. Van reached up to touch his head gingerly, and he felt the warm, sticky sensation of blood. There wasn't a lot of blood, but it was there nonetheless. Glancing up at the white-haired man, Van hid a scowl and slowly got up from the floor.

"Do you have the data?" he asked of the other man. He rubbed his neck, trying to get rid of the soreness that resulted from the Fon Master's powerful grip. The one called Dist sat in his floating chair for a moment, just staring. Van glared at him.

"Dist," he growled, "The data?"

"Oh! Yes, of course I have it." He floated forward, offering the pile of papers in his arms. Van took them gruffly from the other's arms, and stalked off.

"Yes, I will remember everything," he muttered to himself as he walked out the door, "Everything…Fon Master." The man in the floating chair looked at him over his glasses, one eyebrow raised.

"Well then," he said to no one in particular, turning his chair to the exit, "If no one else has anything for me to do, I think I'll go back to scheming." He floated his way out the room, closing it behind him. The green-haired boy in the cage stared at the door for a moment before curling up.

"Weirdo," he whispered, before closing his eyes and going to sleep.


	4. Death

It was the tallest thing that he had ever seen. It was taller than even the cathedral in Daath. He stared up at it, admiring the grandeur and feeling the sense of foreboding as smoke drifted lazily from the top. He dug through his memory, trying to figure out what it was. It couldn't be a mountain, since he knew that there would be no way for smoke to be coming from it. It had to be a volcano. Yes, Daath was said to have been formed near a volcano. Mt. Zaleho, if he remembered correctly.

The boy felt a tug and his arms and he began to walk forward. He was devoid of clothing, but the warmth from the volcano brushed away any cold he would have felt. His wrists itched from the manacles around them, which kept him chained to the others. These others looked exactly like him, with four of them ahead and one more at his back. He felt the one behind him shiver despite the heat and felt himself nearly do so as well. The child continued his march forward.

After a short walk, the group was allowed to rest. Him and the others weren't the only ones walking up this mountain. With them was the floating man – Dist – and Van. The boy looked up at the sky, and watched as the sun made its way up to bring the dawn. The group had left early in the night, but late enough so that everyone else was asleep. He recalled being pulled out of his near sleep state by the sudden cries of the others in the cages – the same others that he was linked to now. The floating man had placed the manacle on him and had marched them all out of the room and out of the cathedral. At the entrance to Daath, Van had been waiting. He had joined the group, staying near the back, and looking behind as if afraid of anyone following. The boy had pondered on the lack of guards on their path to the entrance, but had given up when he couldn't figure it out. The group had marched their way to the base of the volcano, occasionally lagging as one of the boys accidentally tripped or fell asleep, but never stopping.

Now, sitting on the ground with the others, the boy watched as the myriad of colors crept their way up from the horizon, followed by the great yellow orb of the sun. It would have been a beautiful sight to most of the people, but the green-haired boy sitting a little ways up the volcano, it was nothing. He didn't really care about the new day. It didn't seem as if it were going to be any different from previous ones, except now he had a chance to walk instead of lying in the cage. In fact, the light from the sun hurt his eyes and he turned his head away. All he wanted to do now was catch some sleep, and maybe eat something.

He was to get neither. Just as his eyes began to droop, a voice called out.

"All right everybody!" Dist shouted, startling all the boys out of their sleep, or near sleep, "We must continue on until nightfall!" He floated up the hill, not looking back to see if the others followed. The boy looked back at Van, but the man's eyes were closed in sleep or meditation. So he reluctantly got up with the others, and they began their march up the mountains. Behind them, Van got up and followed.

"Hey, watch it," the boy muttered as the one behind him accidentally kicked his ankle. The other merely looked at him, wide eyes staring. He cocked his head as if confused about what was happening. He tripped over a rock, and crashed into the one before him.

"What do you think you're doing?" growled the boy, causing the other to recoil back as far as the chain let him, "You better be more careful." Seeing that the other was properly cowed, the boy grumbled and continued walking. The lack of sleep was taking its toll on him, and he was becoming more irritable with each step. As he tripped along other the other boys in the line, he couldn't help but think that this whole thing was that Ion person's fault. If that mirror-like version of him hadn't been so rude and beaten him up, none of this would have happened. He could be back at the cathedral, in a more comfortable room. Yes, and maybe it was a bit of Van's fault too, for introducing the two. Satisfied with his own strange reasoning, the boy continued the march.

The group stopped a few more times, and was approaching the top of the volcano when night began to fall. The boy suddenly wondered why they were marching up. Was it to get some exercise? But, no, they could have simply done something in the courtyard around Daath. He was broken out of his reverie as he heard Van's voice call out to the front.

"Dist! We should stop for the night." The floating man at the front turned back to him.

"But, we are so near the top! I need to get back to the lab and – "

"Who is in charge here?" Van asked, raising one prominent brown eyebrow. Dist glanced down at the ground.

"Fine," he muttered. He floated off a bit to the side. Curious, the boy moved his head to see what the white-haired man was doing, accidentally bumping into the boy behind him but ignoring his whine of protest. Finding a spot where he could see around the back of the chair, the boy watched as the Dist man reached underneath the cushion of the chair. From it, he brought out an unremarkable small book and quill pen and began scribbling words into the book. Seeing that nothing interesting was happening, the boy decided to get some well-needed sleep.

He woke abruptly to incessant shaking on his shoulders. Thinking that it was just one of the other boys, he shrugged the hand off roughly. He felt the hand again and was about to brush it off once more when he realized that it was much too large and too rough for it to be one of the feeble other boys' hands. He peeked one eye open, seeing a bleary picture of a face. As he slowly opened his other eye, he saw that he was looking into the blue eyes of Van Grants.

"Get up," the man whispered to him. The boy did so, glancing around to see that everyone, even the floating man, was asleep. He stared back at Van, who was now holding the boy's arms up. Pulling out a key from somewhere, he clicked it into the on the manacles, unlocking them and releasing the boy from the chains. The small noise caused one of the other boys to stir, and both of those who were awake stopped their actions, waiting for him to stop.

The now freed boy stared as his hands, flexing his wrists to get rid of the soreness in them. He looked up at the man.

"Why?" was all he could manage to say.

"You will see," the man responded, "And you are different. Now, go and hide somewhere along the path. Wait for me wherever you are. Let no one see or hear you leave." Van then moved away from the line, sat down, and fell asleep. The boy looked after him, envying that ability to sleep so quickly, then got up and scampered away down the path. He had not thoughts about running away from the man, despite his prior convictions about his responsibility in causing everything that had happened. The boy knew that he would not survive long without the help of Van.

After a small distance, he located a small crevice that he had spotted on the way up. He crawled into it and, after a time, fell asleep.

He awoke this time to light shining onto his closed eyes. The green-haired child opened his eyes, and was nearly blinded by the sudden shine. He looked around, expecting to hear the voice of the man in the chair and feel the tug of the chains, then recalled that he was free. He got up, hit his head on one of the walls, and sat back down, rubbing the place where he hit his head. When the pain had lessened, he got up again, more carefully this time, and crawled out of the crevice. He took a short walk around, did his business, and made his way back to the crevice.

"What to do now," he murmured to himself, "I guess nothing but wait now." He crawled back into the crevice, and sat watching the entrance, waiting for Van.

A few hours later, he heard the voice of Dist. The white-haired man seemed to be complaining, as usual.

"Where could that one boy have gone? Grr, if Ion finds out…"

"Ion has lost his memory, remember?" came the voice of Van. Moments later, the boy was able to see both of them.

"That is why we had to get rid of the replicas."

"Yes, 'lost his memory'," the boy heard Dist say. He wondered at the strange way in which the floating man had said the words, and slowly became aware of Van looking at his hiding spot. The tall man stopped.

"Van?" Dist said, turning after realizing that he could no longer hear the crunching of volcanic soil over his complaints, "Is something wrong?"

"This volcano has many secrets," Van replied, turning to face the other man, "I think I'll stay here to see if anything appears." Dist stared at him for a moment before turning back to the path down. He left Van without another word. Van smirked as he watched the floating man continue on.

"Come out," he said after a sufficient time passed for Dist to get out of hearing. The boy followed his command. He took a spot, standing to the left of Van. They stood for a moment their, the hot, ashy wind blowing the hair about.

"So," Van said, breaking the silence, "You are alive now. You need a name. Not Ion, as there is already one with that name. You must have a name that is…harmonious, to symbolize your purpose."

_My purpose?_ the boy thought. The two stood in silence for a while, before the boy looked up at the man and was startled to realize that he was to come up with name by himself. Was he? Did it matter now?

"Harmonious," he muttered, "Harmony, in…sync."

"Yes, Sync," Van said, "So shall be your name. You will be one of my subordinates, a general in the army of Daath. You will obey my orders, Sync, and as long as you do, you will become a…" The boy, now Sync, did not learn what he would become, because at that moment, he fell forward from exhaustion and lack of sleep. In his stupor, he felt his body falling, and then stopping when a hand reached out to catch him.

"Rest then," came Van's voice, "We have time before we must return." Sync curled up into a ball and slept again, eyes drawn tight against the sun's rays.


	5. Strength

A knock. And another. And yet another. The lone figure lying on the bed next to the wall opposite the door rolled over sleep and gave a grunt.

Three knocks again. The figure woke up. His green hair was no longer flat on his head. Instead, it was spiked up in a style that could only have been done through design. But the face remained the same. The same green eyes, the same face so similar to the others taken up the mountain just a few days ago. The knocks came again. The figure moved his way toward the door, turned the knob, and opened it just a crack. Reassured by the face on the other side, he stepped away, letting the man open it the rest of the way.

"Are you ready, Sync?" the man asked. Sync could still see the strength, the power, the wisdom that he had felt the first time he had awakened. Yet, there was something different now, a feeling of…despair? Impossible. More of a feeling of anger, maybe hatred. But not quite.

"Yes, Van," Sync said. Van opened the door for the boy, but as Sync looked out, he balked.

"Were you not going to get that mask for me? So I won't be…recognized?" he asked of the man. Van shook his head.

"It's still being made, but don't worry. You'll have no need of it where we're going." Only slightly comforted, Sync stepped out into an empty hallway. He waited for Van to close the door, and followed him as he walked down the hall.

"Where are we going?" Sync wondered aloud. Van faced him, his stride longer than the boy's, causing Sync to have to nearly jog to keep up.

"There are some people that I need you to meet. It is important that you know them. For your training." He left it at that.

The walk was not too long. The pair stopped in front of a closed door. Although it seemed to lead to a normal room, it was taller and wider than any of the other doors that were in this part of the cathedral of Daath. Sync soon found out why.

As Van opened the door, Sync saw the strangest sight. Weaponry. The humongous room was filled with weapons and armor of all kind, ranging from the simple dagger to crossbows and even a grand sword, larger than even he was. He flinched as the crashing of metal reached his ears. As he blinked, he saw a man. Just in case his eyes were deceiving him, he closed and rubbed them before opening them again. They weren't. Before him stood a mountain of a man, dressed only from the waist down. He could see the muscles bulging grotesquely from every place that could have them. The man wore a belt and gold-colored spiked cuffs around his wrists. While the top of his head was completely bald, he had a thick beard and moustache.

"Is that you, Commandant?" the man boomed in a booming voice. When his ears stopped ringing, Sync reflected on the redundancy of the description. And then he wondered as to why the man would have to ask. Was Van not one of the most well known persons in Daath? He was surprised when Van responded without any hint of wondering to the same question.

"Yes, it is I. And I have brought the boy, Sync." The muscular man bent over as if to look at Sync, and the boy realized why he had had to ask for their identities. He flinched away as he stared at the whiteness of the other's eyes, lacking the color of the iris, even the blackness of the pupil. He heard the big man sniff at him as if smelling his scent.

"Hah, so this is the boy you spoke of?" he said, still in a booming voice. Sync shivered as he felt a speck of saliva strike him. He shuffled his way over to the other side of Van, but before he could do so, the strongman lifted him up effortlessly by his shirt collar. He began to gasp for breath and gagged before the man dropped him unceremoniously back onto the floor.

"Well, then," Van said calmly, as if not witnessing the event, "I shall leave him here with you to begin his training. I'll be back in a few hours."

"A few hours? Sync groaned, murmuring to the floor. He heard the door shut to the right of him, and then the booming voice of the man telling him to get up. He put his hand beneath him and painfully pushed himself back up.

"You ever use weapons, boy?" the man shouted at him, despite being only a few feet away. Sync wondered if he used echolocation to find people, then dismissed the thought as he saw the man's nostrils flare again.

"No," he muttered. He saw the man's face scowl.

"We better see what you can use then, boy," came the response. The man grabbed Sync's collar again and dragged him along to the first row of weapons. Sync tried to sigh, but was again trying to get his breath back.

When the big man finally stopped, Sync was lying in front of a rack of glistening metal. There were all sorts of blades on it, ranging from the daggers to that big sword again. Sync sat up, trying to regain his breath.

"Well?" the man called, again shouting despite the proximity, "Get up and look at one!" Sync did so quickly, picking up a large sword. Or, trying to. The sword, while definitely not the biggest, proved too heavy for him to lift.

"Weak!" the man shouted. He bent over Sync, causing the boy's hair to brush his chest. Sync felt the hair begin to droop as some of the oil from the man's chest washed out some of the gel in his hair, and he shivered again. The man wrenched the sword hilt out of Sync's hands, and began waving it around. The boy dodged around the crowded rack area, trying to dodge the wild swings.

"See, boy? You should be able to pick this little toy up with one hand!" he cried out. Metal and wood clashed together with every swing, yet the racks still held up bravely by the end, albeit extremely battered. The man threw the sword carelessly back onto a rack.

"Maybe blades aren't my thing," Sync murmured again. The big man grunted and grabbed Sync's collar again. This time he led him to a different set of racks, decked with various scythes. He dropped Sync, and placed his fingers to his chin, after they got through the forest of beard in between. A spider crawled out, climbing up his cheek, over the head, down the back, and under a rack. After a moment of thinking, probably lasting a quarter hour, the strongman shook his head, obviously deciding that Sync wouldn't be able to use any of the scythes. Looking at the size of them, Sync was inclined to agree. He prepared himself to be grabbed by the collar, but this time the man dragged him to a rack of bows by his legs. He groaned as he was dropped again with a thump.

"Bet you can use these," shouted the man, "Get up!" Sync did so with all haste, grabbing a small bow from the rack. He pulled the drawstring to his ear, surprised at how easy the motion was. He released it with a satisfying twang. Grinning, he did a few more times, getting the feel for the bow.

"So, you like that, huh?" the man called out. Sync nodded, wondering if the man would notice. He did.

"Hah! I'd expect a coward's weapon to satisfy a coward!"

"C-coward?" Sync stammered, surprised. He glanced down at the bow. "What do you mean?"

"Archers, boy! Archers all stand back over a hill and watch as the real men risk their lives up close to the enemy." The man continued on with a rant for another quarter hour, as Sync sucked his bottom lip. At the end of the lecture, the boy scowled and put the bow back.

"Hey, don't let me shame you away from being a coward," the man said. Sync just scowled at him, to no effect upon the blind eyes.

The ritual of dragging to racks and testing out weapons continued for another two hours. Finally, the strongman dropped Sync into the middle of the room, a cleared out area surrounded only by the racks.

"Well, seems like you're not up for any of these weapons," the man shouted, causing more specks of spit to hit Sync, "You'll just have to use the most noble of weapons then!" He paused, expectantly. Sync decided to humor him.

"And what would that be?" he said dully, rolling his eyes as he put his head into his hands. He stared as a rat crossed the wooden floor at the feet of the strongman.

"Your own body!" the man responded, "Your fists! Your feet! Those are the true weapons of any man! Given to use when we were born! True champions use them! Now let's test your weak strength, boy!" Sync groaned, but he got up, feeling the creaking of his battered bones as he did so. The big man got up more readily, pulling back a fist. But before he could make a punch at Sync, they heard the opening of the door.

"Are you in there?" came Van's voice. Sync sighed in relief, and glanced at the other man's scowl. They made their way back to the door, with Sync following the big man as he pushed his way through the racks, causing armor and weaponry to fall off. Some of the racks looked ready to topple, until Sync noticed that they were all nailed down. He walked to Van when they reached the door.

They left the room without saying anything. The same was true as the two walked down the still empty hallway back to Sync's room. With a sigh, Sync crumpled onto his bed.

"You have an hour before we need to go meet up with someone else," Van told him. The boy scowled at the ceiling, then sat up on the bed. Van was turning around to leave, but then glanced back as if remembering something.

"Oh, yes, here." Van threw something to Sync. It glistened as it crossed through the window light and Sync caught it in both hands. He stared at it, turning it around in his hands, awed. It was a mask, though very different from any he had seen before. It did not fully cover the face, but was angled so that the mouth and chin could still be seen. It was decorated with marks, possibly to allow the wearer to see, since there were no holes for the eyes. He put it on, and the hypotheses proved true. While sight was not clear, he could definitely see.

"You have an hour," Van repeated from the doorway, "Test that mask for how it feels. I'll be back later." He left. Sync stood up and began walking around, crashing only a few times. He sat back on the bed, closed his eyes, and took a nap.


	6. Mind

The hour passed. The mask was fitted comfortably on Sync's face, and he had gotten a hang of using the powers of the fonic marks to see past the mask. The boy was staring at the door this time, and it opened without a knock. The two stared at each other for a few moments, until Van nodded. Sync leaped off of the bed and strode over to the doorway.

"It appears that you have grown accustomed to the mask," Van said as the made their way down the hallway. Sync nodded. The pair were on the same path that they had been a few hours ago, but turned at an intersection some way before they reached the room of the strongman, much to Sync's relief. He was aware that Van would not lie to him about meeting a different person, but the short time in the room was still nerve-racking. Sync looked up at Van.

"So, who is this person that I'm supposed to meet this time?" he asked.

"Why the sudden interest? You didn't ask before you met the other."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to run into another guy like him," Sync muttered. Van gave an amused "Huh".

"He's a master of the fonic artes," Van said simply and the two continued down the halls in silence. The walk was significantly longer this time, and they passed a number of people on the way. With his mask, no once recognized Sync's face as that of…

Sync's head whipped around as he saw a familiar face. A boy his age clothed in white robes, with a strange crown on his head. The boy carried a staff in the shape of a tuning fork. Beside the boy was a girl, dressed in the manner of a Fon Master Guardian. Her short hair carried ponytails, and she seemed to be incessantly talking to everyone she met, as well as pulling the reluctant Ion behind her. No, it was an Ion fake. Van had told him that the original had died and that a look-a-like had been put in his place, but nothing more than that. He turned his head back just in time to run into a maid. The shrieked.

"S-s-sorry," he almost muttered in his natural voice, but caught himself. Being so near the Ion made him realize that his voice still sounded like the real Ion's voice and that speaking with it would result in curiosity and questions, something that Van had told him not to incite. So, instead of saying anything, he stood there stupidly, staring at the maid he had accidentally knocked over. Van gave a slight cough beside him, and Sync snapped out of his trance, only to find that everyone else was staring at him, except the maid, who was glaring.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," he said, trying to deepen his voice. It felt and sounded awkward and he doubted that anyone would fall for it, but the maid got up, dusted herself off, and made her way off, nose held high in the air. Everyone else did the same, except without raising their nose. Sync and Van made continued their way down the halls, Sync glancing repeatedly at the man to see if there would be any reaction. There wasn't.

Finally, the two approached a lone door, set at the very end of the hall. Although there had been the usual doors on the side of the hall, there had not been any for quite some time, an aspect Sync found odd. He watched as Van knocked quietly on the door, an even odder event. He heard rapid scrambling, the violent shuffle of papers, and finally, the click of the doorknob. The door opened a crack, and Sync saw one striking red eye peeking out from it. The eye rolled frantically around in its socket, until it rested on Van. Only then did the door open the rest of the way, revealing a very pale, white-haired man who was completely unlike the other white-haired man, the Dist person that Sync had met.

The man before him had disheveled hair, disheveled clothing; in fact, everything about him was disheveled. His shirt, which must have been rather nice before, was rather ragged, and his pants held many tears, including one that removed the entire pant leg from the knee down on this left let. Surprisingly, he still had two good eyes, both red, something Sync had not been expecting from the frantic movement of the one eye he had seen before.

"C-commandant," the man murmured very quietly, staring at Van's shoes, "Y-you're here?" It was a question. Van looked at him, a scowl on his face. The pale man before them trembled before him.

"Yes, it is the time that I told you I would bring someone, yes?" Van replied. The other man shot a glance at his desk littered with papers and made a leap toward it. He shuffled through them, finally pulling a clock from deep within. He moaned softly, staring at the time.

"If it is too much of a trouble, we can always come back," Van said from the doorway, putting a hand on Sync's shoulder. The boy looked up at him, then back to the trembling form of the pale man. He did not seem like much of a fonic artist.

"N-no, no, it'll be fine," the man called back, putting the clock back on the desk and effectively getting it lost once more in the papers. Sync looked with surprise at the golden locket around the man's neck. Unlike the fake-looking gold color of the strongman's cuffs, the locket appeared to be made of real gold, entirely of it.

"You do have something to teach him, right?" Van asked, putting an emphasis on the "do". The man quivered again, facing away from the door.

"Of-of course," he whispered, still facing closed window. Van scowled, but stepped back from the doorway. He gave Sync a push forward.

"Very well then, I'll be back to pick him up in a few hours." He closed the door behind him, leaving Sync and the pale man inside. It was some time before the man turned around to face Sync. He seemed to be less nervous, though still very so.

"So, you," he muttered so that Sync had to lean closer to hear, "You are…Sync, if I recall?"

"Yes, and you?" Sync replied. The man sat in a chair, drew out a book from a shelf Sync had not been able to see since it was on the wall near the door, and began to read it. Sync stood there for a moment, watching, before he realized that his question had just been ignored. He shrugged.

"What are we about to do?" he said after a few more moments. The man jumped, as if startled by the sound.

"To do?" he said, his voice tinged with confusion. And then, "Oh yes, to do! Um, yes, well…" He shuffled again through the papers on his desk. Sync rolled his eyes beneath the mask and leaned against a wall. He watched as the man stopped looking through the papers and as he turned back toward the shelf. He pulled a book from it and Sync sighed, expecting him to begin reading it and forget Sync's presence again. But instead, the man threw the book at Sync with a surprisingly solid throw, although horribly lacking in accuracy. Sync only just managed to leap out of his leaning stance and catch the book before it landed in the corner of the wall opposite the door. He glanced at the title and was dismayed to realize that he could not read a word of it.

"The title's Ancient Ispanian, but the rest is in the common tongue," the pale man said, picking up his own book and falling back into his chair. Sync stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, until the man hooked a wheeled chair with his foot, swinging it toward Sync without looking up. The chair stopped a foot before the boy, and he sat down in it. Silence prevailed for the next few hours. After that, Sync looked up from his book, eyes weary from staring at the text and pages. He turned toward the man.

"Van'll be back soon," he said. His altered voice sounded strange in the stillness. The pale man looked up with a start, stared at Sync as if just seeing him, then shook his head.

"R-right," he managed to stammer out, "An-Any questions?" Sync flicked through the pages for a moment, and then stopped on a page. On it was a rough symbol, opposite a page of pure text.

"Yeah, what's this?" he asked of the man. He turned the book toward the other, showing the picture. The man squinted at the page.

"That is a special fonic symbol," he murmured after scrutinizing it, "It enhances the presence of the fonons surrounding those who have it, allowing them to excel in the higher artes without necessarily having to practice the ones before." Sync was surprised at how smoothly all these words fell from the other's lips.

"If its so great, why doesn't everyone have one?" he asked.

"For one thing, it's notoriously difficult to find someone who can apply them," responded the pale man, "And then, even if you do find someone, the operation is so painful that most people who get it can only stand having it on an appendage, such as the hand or legs." Looking at Sync's questioning glance, he continued, "D-did I forget to mention? Depending on the size of the symbol, the power of the fonons enhances dramatically…but so does the pain." Sync stared down at the image, thinking.

"Do you know how to apply them?" he said, suddenly looking up. The man was startled. "You are a master fonist, right?"

"Um," replied the other, rubbing the back of his neck, "I could, but…"

"All right then," Sync interrupted, "Next time we meet, could you put one on my chest?"

"Are you crazy?" the man cried out, the first burst of emotion Sync saw him make, "Almost no one can survive the pain of having it applied to their chest. Especially one of your age! Well, there was one…but he was the Fon Master and he was unable to do anything for a week afterwards."

"He recovered, though, right?" Sync said, eagerly. The glance from the man proved him right. "I bet I could do it! I've got the stamina, the constitution! You're going to apply it to me, all right?" Knocks came at the door. With a gasp, the fonist grabbed the book from Sync's hand, haphazardly putting it on the shelf after sending the chair he was sitting in down with a crash, scampered toward the door and peeked out the crack he opened. After verifying that it was Van, he opened the door the rest of the way.

"You're finished, right?" Van asked of him.

"Of-of course, sir," he replied.

"Then come, Sync." Sync obeyed, and the pair left the white-haired man behind at the doorway. The long walk back to Sync's room was uneventful and as he sat on the bed, alone in the room, he thought about his about-to-be trainers. The two were so different from each other. He fell backwards into the bed, allowing the rest of the day to pass by in slumber.


End file.
